


Flight of the Bluebirds

by bethfrish



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-19
Updated: 2009-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose we've both grown then."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight of the Bluebirds

_Oh Professor, how overjoyed I am to be returning to London. It's rather like coming home again, isn't it? I've missed it terribly—as I've missed you, though I suspect you must already know that. We take for granted, don't we, those aspects of our lives we assume will last forever. I hope you don't find me too considerably changed when you see me. I've tried to remain the gentleman you always taught me to be.  
_

_Thank you for always writing, even after so long. I look forward to our reunion more than you could possibly know._

_Until then,_  
 _Luke_

  
  
  
  


Layton tucks the letter into a slot in his desk, filthy with dust and years of quiet neglect. Ages have passed since Flora married, so delicate and beautiful and completely in love, and longer still since Luke's ship left him at the docks of the Atlantic, the cool sea air stinging his cheeks. 

Layton launders the spare bedroom and clears his texts from the table, bundles up the rest of Luke's letters—nearly five years' worth—and puts them back in their drawer. Luke has written one for every month he's been away, and Layton has never missed a reply. 

  
  
  
  


Waiting quietly at the end of the platform, Layton recognizes him the moment he steps off the train. He's grown, he thinks. Taller, lankier, cap pulled down too far over his sandy hair, but still Luke. Luke, who had never wanted to leave London behind, who had wept uncontrollably in his arms all those years ago. 

"Oh, Professor Layton!" rings out across the station, and there he is. Layton can feel the warm breath of his hello, he's standing so close. 

Luke studies him for a long moment. Then he averts his eyes and steps away, merely extending his hand. 

  
  
  
  


"I see your favorite automobile is still in good working order," Luke observes over the aged roar of the motor, splaying his fingers out over the upholstery. His accent has become diluted with harsh American syllables, a strange, foreign hybrid that befits neither country. "You haven't changed either, Professor." 

Layton smiles thinly and harrumphs. 

"Honest, you haven't," Luke insists. He had always been a stubborn child, constantly arguing points that were never up for discussion, but there's a depth to his voice now, a low, musical lilt of self-assurance that Layton can no longer contradict. 

"Well," Layton concedes. "Thank you." 

  
  
  
  


They dine in, close and cozy around the worn oak table of Luke's childhood. Layton wonders if he recognizes it, cleared of its ever-present clutter. Luke presses his fingertips into the scratched grain of the wood, runs them carefully over the shining, white china; flawless, like it's never been used. 

"I don't remember you being much of a cook, Professor," Luke calls over the buzz of last-minute preparations. 

"Ah...well." Layton laughs meekly from the doorway, gripping a platter with both hands. "I suppose we've both grown then," he offers, and moves to set the bird down on the table. 

  
  
  
  


It surprises Layton when Luke declines a second glass of wine. He had assumed a boy so clearly on the precipice of adulthood would welcome the opportunity to drink freely, but Luke only thanks him politely and shakes his head. 

"Are you disappointed, Professor, that I intend to study law?" Luke asks with the self-conscious concern of a traitor. He drinks too thoughtfully; the single glass has already stained his lips. 

"Of course not," Layton assures him. "Law is a fine profession," and he watches as Luke smiles mildly over his glass, pink and smudged where his mouth has been. 

  
  
  
  


They sit together on the sofa, drinking idly from Layton's old teacups—the ones with the bluebirds that Luke had always admired. Layton tells him a puzzle for old time's sake, and Luke hardly has to think about it, just declares, "Seventeen," with a modest smile. 

"You're too old for these," Layton reflects, and Luke goes to refill their cups. 

He returns empty-handed and sits down so close that their knees brush together. "Tell me a different one then," Luke says evenly, placing his hand on Layton's wrist. 

Layton looks at him carefully, mouth dry. "As you wish," he says. 

  
  
  
  


Luke tastes of honey and lemon, of some too-sweet spice and the slow, awkward kisses of Layton's past. He bites the back of his hand and gazes at Layton through long, brown eyelashes; too eager, too shy. 

Luke cries when he comes, burying his face in his arm, and it's then that Layton knows—should have known all along. 

"Oh, Luke," Layton whispers frantically into his hair as his blood turns to ice. "Luke, we shouldn't have... Not with me." 

Luke smiles up at him, trembling, but his eyes are wet, and the salt on his lips betrays them both. 

  
  
  
  


Layton stands over the sink, letting the cold water drip from his face and onto his chest. The chill pricks his skin as it dries, but he doesn't feel it. Just rubs the water out of his eyes. 

He goes to the table and sits down, holding an abandoned teacup lightly in his hands. The faded birds glide mournfully between his fingertips. 

Staring into the cold dregs of amber, he tries not to hear the soft, anguished sobs coming from the other room. They remind him too much of that sweet child, crying at the docks all those years ago.


End file.
